


Here Am I

by AStudyInAlgedonics



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Jealous!John, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pining, there will be bamf!John too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AStudyInAlgedonics/pseuds/AStudyInAlgedonics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the December Johnlock Exchange, for tomoe-kudo's prompt of "love triangle/cheating". Anyway. Sherlock meets a con man called Victor Trevor and falls (?) head over heels for him. John's been in love with his flatmate for what feels like ages and it's a bit upsetting. ...Okay, a lot upsetting. (I may or may not be obsessed enough with the whole jealous!John thing to have a playlist dedicated to it shhhhh)</p><p>[UPDATE]: Fic abandoned. I can no longer capture the voice I wrote this in originally, and the plot I had originally planned no longer resonates with me as a realistic workable thing. Also, I can no longer muster up sympathy for jealous!John, no matter how much I enjoy jealous!John, after the events of season three. I am leaving it up for the sake of everyone who commented and kudos'ed, though - I truly do appreciate it, and you are all such inspirations. Apologies to everyone who enjoyed this, and I hope you'll come see my current works~ (personally, I think their quality is much higher)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been on the biggest jealous!John kick lately ugh I can't.
> 
> I don't own anything, obviously.

_Met somebody today. –SH_

**“Somebody?” –JW**

_A man, to be specific. I was immediately impacted. Is that usual? –SH_

**Uh…yeah, it can be, but I never pegged you for the love-at-first-sight type. –JW**

_I doubt it’s love, but it’s certainly mutual attraction. –SH_

_I won’t be home until late. We’re doing dinner, then drinks back at his flat; don’t wait up. –SH_

**Wow, already? Really poured on the charm, huh? Congratulations. –JW**

_You don’t sound as pleased as I expected. –SH_

**Sure I am, I’m elated for you, just…surprised. –JW**

**Thought you were married to your work? –JW**

_Only  a marriage of the mind, it seems. –SH_

**Right, okay. Well, tell me about him? He must have been something to have caught Sherlock Holmes’ attention. –JW**

**Oh god, it’s not a criminal mastermind, is it? –JW**

**If you say Moriarty I will kill you. –JW**

_Relax, John. It’s not Moriarty. He isn’t quite on the right side of the law, but he’s no mastermind, just a little bit of a con man. –SH_

_His name is Victor Trevor. –SH_

**A con man? I figured you wouldn’t be interested in someone vanilla. Too boring. –JW**

_Mm. Are we really using flavours as metaphors for personality traits? What would I be? –SH_

_Chocolate? –SH_

**Everyone but you does, yeah. I wouldn’t say you’re chocolate, though-too sweet. Maybe…espresso. You can be bitter, but you wake things up. –JW**

**Never mind. That’s stupid. Delete that. I dunno what flavour you’d be. –JW**

_If you insist. –SH_

**I do, yeah. Anyway, I’ve got a patient, so…I’m gonna stop texting you. Have fun tonight. –JW**

_I shall certainly endeavour to do so. –SH_

* * *

 

John put his phone back in his pocket with a slightly sick feeling to his stomach as his next patient - a Mrs Wilkins, a sweet old lady who was convinced she had a different illness every week - walked in. For the next fifteen minutes, he went through the motions of a routine checkup, managing to reassure her that she was perfectly healthy and had nothing to worry about with minimal preoccupation by Sherlock’s…date.

For that was what it was, after all; no point pretending it wasn’t. No point pretending Sherlock was only doing it for a case. John couldn’t begin to imagine what was so special about this con man that had beaten out Sherlock’s commitment to his work, but it had to be rather spectacular, and that was what left him queasy.

He’d been okay, knowing his feelings were never going to be reciprocated since the moment he’d come to terms with them. It was fine, it was all fine, and Sherlock simply didn’t do that sort of thing. At least he was permitted to be the man’s closest friend, be confided in; that was better than nothing. Even now that was still a very nice place to be, but knowing that Sherlock dated and didn’t consider John better than this...stranger...It did kind of hurt.

Well. He had no claim upon the man; Sherlock was free to do what - or who - he wanted. John had no right being jealous, none at all.

And telling himself didn’t help that in the slightest. He finished out the last few hours of his shift, the constricted feeling in his chest never easing, and chose to walk home in the hope that the brisk air would help. It didn’t.

As he walked through the darkening streets of London, John couldn’t stop thinking about this con man. Of course. If Sherlock was going to fall for anyone, it wouldn’t be an ordinary, law-abiding citizen, would it? It wouldn’t even be a mostly law-abiding citizen who occasionally shot cabbies for him. It would be a full blown criminal as likely to be playing him as not-John sighed as that spat of acid crossed his mind. The possibility that Sherlock wouldn’t realise he was being deceived was infinitesimal, and it wasn’t hard to imagine that someone would be just as charmed - magnetised, allured - by the detective’s lunatic brilliance as John was.

 _But does he see the worst of him and love him for it anyway_ , John thought sullenly. He stopped dead in his tracks. This was exactly the sort of behaviour he hated in people - clingy, overly clingy.  Possessive was fine, when one had a claim - which he still didn’t - but clingy was never good. Probably Victor Trevor was, despite his profession, a perfectly nice man.

Trying to keep that thought firmly in mind, John continued home. Sherlock was already gone - of course. Well, at least he could take advantage of the empty flat, he thought, forcing himself to look at the bright side. When was the last time he’d felt comfortable just pouring himself a scotch and settling down with a book? Answer: never. Sherlock always decided he was boring and opted to start practicing his tortured-cat routine for the next time Mycroft came over.

After perhaps a few more than he should have had, John got into the beer, enjoying the way the warm fizzy buzz killed off the envious ache in his chest. A few more bottles of liquid courage later, and he had no compunction at all against shooting off a text to Sherlock, who no doubt right now was enjoying dinner - or, perhaps, “drinks” already - with his little con man.

**Lkovve u. -jW**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awkward morning after (for John and his lonely-heart hangover, anyway; Sherlock is...glowing) and general attempts to remain unnoticed. John is good at camouflage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is way later than I meant to have this up eheheheheh. Anyway I dunno when the next part will be ready, but soon. 
> 
> Clearly I don't own anything.

The next morning, John woke up late, head pounding and mouth fuzzy. He lay there for a moment, loud movements downstairs sending sharp spikes of pain through his skull with every noise - of course Sherlock was already back, he thought miserably. Already he regretted going overboard last night; the buzz really wasn’t worth a hangover with Sherlock Holmes around, banging things and being so irritatingly noisy. He didn’t even remember a thing after he’d started on the beer. Waste of good alcohol.

John finally rose with a groan, the prospect of getting some painkiller (and possibly toast, if the trip to the kitchen didn’t make him too queasy) overwhelming the twin ordeals of moving and the lunatic puttering around.

He hadn’t bothered to change out of his street clothes before falling asleep; deciding to save the shower until he felt he could handle it, he crossed the room and leaned heavily on the stair rail all the way down. How Harry still did this all the time was beyond him, he thought with grim good humour. He was far past being able to get completely pissed without regretting it the next day.

Sherlock was, as he’d predicted, pacing around the flat energetically and clattering his glassware. His hair was even more untidy than usual, his shirt mussed. “Good morning, John,” he said, brightly, as John stumbled into the sitting room. From somewhere, he produced a cup of tea on a saucer, with a couple of paracetamols (John had learned to identify these on sight after a near-disastrous “experiment” with some truth drug cooked up by Mycroft’s minions) on the side.

John blinked at it owlishly, wincing at the cheery tone. “Uh, ta,” he said with surprised gratitude. He made his way over to his flatmate and took the tea, downing the pills with a quick gulp of the hot liquid. While he knew that it was just in his head, he already felt a degree or two better.

“I noticed the bottles strewn around the flat and made the obvious deduction, that you’d be suffering the consequences of imbibing so many sulfites,” Sherlock explained. “Lestrade came over, I assume?”

John noticed a dark bruise on Sherlock’s pale throat and tried not to stare at it. “No, actually, it was just me.” He shrugged and changed the subject. “Have a good night, then?”

Sherlock gave him a scrutinising look - of course he’d know that John hated drinking alone, that it made him think too much of Harry - but let it go, which was even more uncharacteristic than the tea and the casual kindness. John suppressed a frown: just what kind of man was Victor Trevor to have this kind of effect on Sherlock? “Most definitely,” the detective answered with a slight smirk. “Victor is...a most exhilarating lover.”

John moved away and sank gladly into his chair. “That,” he said firmly, “is definitely in the realm of too much information. I meant, you know, the dinner bit, the actual date?” He didn’t really want to hear about that either, but if he didn’t ask a question so typical of good friends - even though there was nothing typical about friendship with Sherlock Holmes - then Sherlock would be sure to notice and ask why he hadn’t. That wasn’t a question John felt he was prepared to field at the moment.

“Ah,” Sherlock said, sitting opposite him. His restless energy didn’t seem to have abated much; he was still fidgeting, tapping his fingers on his thigh vaguely rhythmically. “The date was fine. He’s a rather good conversationalist, and he has fascinating tales of some of his escapades to share. You would find him entertaining as well,” he added with a grin. His expression sobered. “Though Angelo was...upset to see me there without you.”

John resisted the irrational urge to scream at him for taking the con man to Angelo’s, to _their_ restaurant. It wasn’t anything of the sort. Just because they’d gone from dinner to the subsequent chase that cured his limp and ended with him shooting a cabbie for the mad genius he’d realised he needed desperately didn’t make it theirs; Sherlock had pre-emptively shot him down there, after all. If anything it was anti-theirs.

“Sorry to hear that,” he said, trying for a joke. “Better not introduce him to Mrs Hudson. She’ll kill you.”

“That’s a shame,” Sherlock said, lips quirking in a wry smile. “I invited him over tonight. I want you to meet him.”

John flinched. “Can’t,” he said, trying to sound genuinely regretful. “I already had plans with Mary tonight.” He didn’t, but she would probably be willing to do a movie or something - anything to avoid meeting the man Sherlock was so enamoured of. He wrenched his attention away from the hickeys on the detective’s neck again. Sherlock’s face morphed into a scowl; John was stricken again by how quickly his moods shifted. “Victor is far more interesting,” he said brusquely. “You wouldn’t regret cancelling with her.”

“Sherlock, I’m not cancelling with my girlfriend to meet your boyfriend. I’m not your parent, I don’t care what you do.” John drained the rest of his tea and stood up. “I don’t know what upsets you so much about Mary, but she’s perfectly nice and she’s not as boring as you seem to think she is.” Of course Sherlock seized on that.

“So you think she’s at least slightly boring,” he said triumphantly.

John glared at him. “I never said that.” Though she was, compared to Sherlock - but then who wasn’t? He certainly wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction of hearing him say it. “You need to get over this aversion you have to me sustaining any kind of meaningful relationship.” _Because I need more than what I’m getting from you_ , he added silently.

“Are you saying that our relationship isn’t meaningful?”

“Christ, no,” John said immediately, and meant it. “We’re friends, best friends, and that’s very important and always will be, but that’s not what I meant and you know it.” He held up a hand to curtail whatever poison Sherlock was about to retort with. “You’re not my keeper either. You don’t get a say in my relationships unless she’s secretly a serial killer or an arsonist or something, in which case, please say something, but outside of criminal nature, you don’t have a reason or a right to stop me dating. Got it?” Sherlock looked mutinous. John wished the whole conversation weren’t necessary; the detective had no idea how easily he could claim that right if he just wanted it. Except he didn’t, so he had no business knowing. “Right, then,” he said, with another swallow of tea. “I won’t be here, so, uh, you can have the flat to yourselves. Just...make sure you move to your bedroom if anything, er, comes up, because if I have to come home unexpectedly I really don’t want to see that. All right?” He felt slightly sick at the thought of walking in on Sherlock and the con man.

“Yes, _sir_ ,” Sherlock replied with sulky sarcasm. John rolled his eyes and got out his phone to text Mary, just to let her know he needed a place to stay. If she said no, he could always ask Greg; there was sort of a standing ‘when-Sherlock’s-being-a-massive-prick’ invitation there. As he scrolled slowly through the phone menu-ignoring Sherlock’s scornful glances thrown every few minutes at his hands; apparently his good post-shag mood had worn off-he saw the text he’d sent Sherlock last night and blanched.

**Lkovve u. -jW**

Well. That was...that was not good. He risked a surreptitious glance at Sherlock; the detective didn’t seem inclined to bring it up. That was merciful; John wasn’t sure he could quite make the excuse ‘I was drunk’ plausible. Right, then. Time to get out of Sherlock’s hair before he realised something was off and decided to strip John bare - unfortunately not literally.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a certain snake-oil salesman appears. Well, that could only last so long...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm crying. This is going to be longer than I planned at the start. But how could I skip over introducing Victor...? I couldn't, that's how. Anyway, I'm sorry it took me so long to actually post this ahahahahaha -sobs-
> 
> This chapter made me feel very greasy to write. Ewwww. I need to scrub my brain. There are no words for how I loathe our dear Mr Trevor. 
> 
> Clearly I don't own Sherlock Holmes or any of the related offspring works.

John had been walking on eggshells around 221B since that incredibly awkward morning - at least, it had been awkward for John; he couldn’t imagine what values of uncomfortable Sherlock deemed ‘awkward’. For god’s sakes, the man had no problems rooting around in a stranger’s dirty underwear for evidence. The whole time, John had managed to avoid meeting Victor, using every tactic he could think of to get out of the flat and away for a while: going out with Mary, going down the pub with Lestrade, reopening communications with the rugby lads from uni whom he’d fallen out of touch with ages ago. He’d taken night shifts at the clinic, more than his share, and once he’d even paid Harry a visit, hoping he’d be lucky enough to catch her while she was sober. It hadn’t ended well, of course; it had been more than a little awful, and he’d mentally scratched that one off as a bad idea.

The evasion could only last so long, though. Sherlock wasn’t blind, and he definitely wasn’t an idiot; he’d twigged to the fact that John’s constant inability to meet his boyfriend wasn’t just coincidence nearly at the start, and his comments whenever John bowed out were growing snider by the day. John was dead certain he wouldn’t be able to get out of it much longer - when Sherlock was truly determined to get something, it was nearly impossible to stop him, and while there was no telling why he was so focused on Victor and John meeting-John could think of at least three possibilities, five if he let his paranoia get the better of him - it was obvious he was.

Given all that, John privately considered it a miracle that he made it a month before coming home from a frankly exhausting day to find a surprise guest in the sitting room chatting animatedly with Sherlock on the sofa. He stopped in the doorway, unconsciously settling into parade rest as he eyed the stranger: young with reddish-gold hair neatly slicked back save for a free-hanging lock in front of his left ear, clearly well-to-do (or a ne’er-do-well) in a bespoke suit every bit as flatteringly cut as Sherlock’s suits always were. He was handsome enough, John supposed, but all he could focus on was the conniving glint in the man’s eyes and the not-quite-genuine edge to his smile.

And the way he kept touching Sherlock possessively…yes, John had no doubt in his mind about who this was, and he really, really wanted to punch him.

“Ah, John, there you are,” Sherlock said expansively. “This is Victor.”

John hauled his manners back online and smiled at him, offering his hand even as Victor rose from his seat. The con man shook his hand firmly, not quite comfortably; John didn’t respond to the harder-than-necessary grip.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, doing his best to sound enthusiastic about meeting the bloke. The temptation to do exactly what Sherlock always did to the women he invited over in brief moments of insanity was strong, but so was his courtesy; if Sherlock noticed him acting peculiar he’d no doubt want to investigate. Not good, that. “John Watson. I’ve heard quite a lot about you, Mr Trevor; shame nobody warned me, I’d have picked something up for dinner.”

“Oh, no, that’s perfectly fine,” Victor replied, flashing a grin. “We already ate.” The look he gave Sherlock was much too suggestive for John’s taste. “Sherlock was complaining that something always seemed to come up when he tried to arrange a little soiree like this; I suggested that if we made a surprise of it, you wouldn’t have time to run away.” He chuckled; for a moment John fancied an unfriendly shadow crossed his eyes. Just as quickly, though, it was gone and the con man was moving away.

“Drinks, I think,” he was saying. “I mix a mean cocktail, always getting asked to make them at work parties - but you knew that already, Sherlock. I brought a few things over; what’s your poison, Doctor Watson?”

“I’m more the pint of an evening sort myself,” John answered. He forced himself to smile, and he didn’t bother to correct Victor’s formality; there was no way he wanted to be on first-name terms with the guy. Sherlock’s eyes flicked to him as he noticed the lapse - well, whatever. It was a minor tell at best. “It’s not often I’m really in the mood for anything fancier…”

“Yes, I can see it now,” Victor answered after a brief pause, his lips curling upwards slightly. “The simple, homey type, are you?”

John merely shrugged, then deliberately relaxed his stance. “I feel bad, though,” he said pleasantly. “Making a guest serve me - really, is there anything I can get for you?”

The sly sparkle in the con man’s eyes was back. “Oh, no,” he said, equally agreeably. “I quite feel at home in 221B, not like a guest at all. It’s no problem.”

His tone raised John’s hackles. Did this arrogant little prick think he was going to be moving in? Like _hell_. He was quite prepared to set Victor straight, but abruptly Sherlock - who’d been watching their deteriorating conversation this whole time with narrowed eyes - spoke up.

“Jammy dodgers.” He met John’s gaze. “I’ve been dying for a few all day.” 

John stifled a sigh - damn Sherlock’s sweet tooth.  The detective had polished off the last of the biscuits they’d had in the flat that morning with his tea, and he couldn’t very well just pop down and demand Mrs Hudson supply some. If he wanted to satisfy the prat he was going to have to run out to Tesco. Come to think of it, that was probably Sherlock’s intention; that perfectly-innocent expression was not genuine in the slightest, and he hadn’t been doing a very good job of pretending he wasn’t agitated. John shrugged.

“Good thing I haven’t taken my shoes off yet, then,” he remarked, pointedly not looking at Victor. “I’ll just go out and get some; we need more milk anyway.” This was a bald-faced lie - he’d managed to talk Sherlock out of culturing the latest carton, for now anyways, but nobody called him out on it. Probably Victor hadn’t gotten into their fridge yet. Trying with some difficulty to keep his vindictive amusement at the idea of the suavely-dressed con man reaching into and recoiling from the horror movie blood and guts that inhabited 221B’s refrigerator most of the time off his face, John turned and headed back out the door, shutting it firmly but not _quite_ slamming it.

He decided to walk instead of catching a cab; Tesco wasn’t far enough away to justify the splurge, and he could do with a bit of a walk anyway, what with the aggravation still sitting like a hot coal in the back of his head. As he made his way towards the store, he tried to ignore the many couples passing by hand in hand, or less frequently, with arms linked together. There’d been too many times when he’d wanted to just take Sherlock’s hand, on a case or simply out and about, and the sight of other people having such an easy time of it made his chest hurt.

Great. He was even jealous of random passersby now. _Get a grip, Watson._

The Tesco was fairly empty at this time of evening, and John got everything he was there for - he didn’t skip the milk, he needed it to keep up with his excuses -without incident. Of course the chip and PIN machine gave him trouble, but for once he relished the opportunity to shout abuse at something for a few minutes before giving up and going to find a human cashier.

Slightly less peeved, but still seething - a mood not helped by the thought of reentering Victor Trevor’s oily presence, which made his gut roil - he headed back slowly, dragging his feet a bit. He felt a bit bad, when he got back to the flat, about striking up a chat with Mrs Hudson just to delay even further, but she seemed happy enough for the visit; it wasn’t that wrong, surely.

“Has Sherlock got that Victor boy over again?” she asked, vaguely disapprovingly, as John finally got up to return to his own flat.

“Er, yes,” he answered, a little surprised by the rancour in her tone - usually it was fairly difficult to earn Mrs Hudson’s dislike, especially if Sherlock liked you - and added guiltily, “I don’t think I can stand him much longer, to be honest.”

“Oh, I understand, dear.” Mrs Hudson nodded sagely. “He’s not a very good sort, is he? I suppose he makes Sherlock happy, but…” She gave John a knowing look. “Well, he’s not you, is he?”

John could feel heat rising in his cheeks. Christ. At least he could trust her not to out him to Sherlock. “No, he’s not,” he agreed. “I’ll just…well, I should get this milk to the fridge. Good night, Mrs Hudson.”

“Good night, dear!” she called after him as he opened 221A’s door and started up the steps. “And good luck!”

John had to pause a moment on the landing of 221B to fight down the renewed blush on his traitorous face before he went inside. He needn’t have bothered, though, he realised the moment he opened the door and glanced into the sitting room. Immediately, he froze, out of shock at first and then with rising mixed horror and anger.

Sherlock and Victor were entwined on the sofa, writhing together, hands everywhere. Thankfully they were still mostly clothed - Sherlock’s unbuttoned shirt hung loose from his arms, and Victor’s had been flung away entirely along with his jacket, but the trousers were on at least. Thank God.

John shut his eyes tightly. The pair on the sofa appeared not even to realise his presence, let alone his disapproval, if the soft moan someone let out was any indication. He couldn’t tell who it was, and for some reason that only added to his fury. Very quickly, he counted silently to ten, then set the bag on the floor -  _damn_ the milk - turned on his heel, and walked back out. This time he did slam the door.

He had no idea where exactly he planned to go. It didn’t matter, not when it felt like his skin was burning off him and he wanted to rip somebody’s head off. Preferably a certain con artist with his greasy hands all over -

Air. He needed air. It was getting late, yes, and wandering aimlessly at night was more than slightly idiotic - but God help the poor mugger who attempted to accost him now, John thought grimly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -prances away-


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Short version: #notdead._

John walked for what felt like a very long time, not in the least concerned with where he was going. His anger prickled and burned at the back of his neck like fire snapping at him; the chill did nothing to soothe him and he wished he’d abandoned his jacket before storming out.

Thrown it over Sherlock and _fucking_ Victor Trevor, maybe. He couldn’t get the vision of the pair snogging (to put it mildly) out of his mind; it was practically scorched onto his brain in perfect crystal clarity, as were the further images his traitorous imagination threw up at him - hands roaming, Sherlock’s deft pale fingers slipping over skin and into the waistband of well-cut trousers, gripping at hips - much too slender to be John’s, he tried and failed not to think. And things going further - more breathy moans; those trousers peeled off, hurled away across the room in the mad rush for skin on skin…

Would they at least have the courtesy to move to Sherlock’s bedroom? Probably not. Sherlock had no sense of patience or of common decency and _fucking_ Victor Trevor - oh, the bastard probably wanted to stake some sort of _fucking_ claim. The way he was looking at John earlier, and the way he kept touching Sherlock…

John clenched both hands into tight fists inside his pockets and resolved to burn and replace the sofa as soon as possible - he could arrange it with one of Sherlock’s damn experiments. That’d make a statement. A rather transparent one, maybe, but a statement nonetheless.

Intent on his vengeance and suppressing the urge to retch in an alley from the agonising visuals chasing each other around, he didn’t notice the car pulling up beside him and slowing to keep pace, windows tinted opaque and impenetrable. It followed for a bit before he caught on; _nice, Watson_ , he berates himself. _Practically begging for a re-enactment of that night at the fucking pool. And Sherlock won’t be coming to try to save your idiot arse this time. Blinders off, soldier up, for God’s sake._

He paused at the next intersection and gestured for whoever was inside to roll down the window. It looked like one of Mycroft’s fleet of vaguely-sinister cars, but so had Jim Moriarty’s. The British government didn’t have a monopoly on menace, after all.

To John’s great surprise, Mycroft Holmes himself was seated in the back, an expression of vague distaste curling his lip ever so slightly downward. The ever-present PA (personal assistant or personal assassin, John has wondered on several occasions) who called herself Anthea the first time they met was in the passenger side front, tapping away rapid-fire on her Blackberry.

“Sherlock told me you never make detours like this,” John said after clambering into the seat offered him - there was no help for it, Mycroft didn’t know how to leave well enough alone and John wasn’t in the mood to be tailed by a great black automobile all round London. They were distant enough from the Diogenes and Mycroft’s office that it had to be something important. National security, maybe - which ignited a rather sadistic spark of pleasure at the idea of Mycroft coming over and leaving Sherlock in one of his fouler moods.

“Not unless it’s important,” Mycroft said curtly and leaned over to shut the door. “I am extremely busy at the moment, John. So let me get to the point. What is your opinion of Victor Trevor?”

John could only gape at him for a moment. “Er, how…” He thought better of the question he’d instinctively gone for; God knew how Mycroft knew everything he did. “How can I have an opinion? I’ve barely met the bloke.”

“You lack the capacity to see and know a person the way my brother does, yet you tend to be a far better judge of…” Mycroft sniffed, pausing as he searched for a word, “character. Sherlock is incapable of telling when something is bad for him and just contrary enough to go after it even when he does know - given Mr Trevor’s record, I should like to preempt whatever danger he may pose to Sherlock’s wellbeing.”

“But you want to make sure it’s justified first. Instead of pissing Sherlock off for nothing and driving him even farther away.” John could sympathise with that. “What do you mean by preempt it?”

Mycroft shrugged one shoulder, the movement elegantly controlled. He could have choreographed this whole session down to the slight tightening around his eyes - probably had, come to think of it. Bloody Holmeses. “Whatever is necessary to remove his influence. Disappearing to prison might be appropriate to his background; though the justification will hardly be necessary, Sherlock will see through it anyway,” he replied.

“He’ll be pissed even if Trevor deserves it,” John pointed out. He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t snapping this chance up; it’d be so, so easy just to tell Mycroft that Victor Trevor was a nightmare, another deranged stalker for Sherlock just waiting to happen. Except there was no way that running to your flatmate’s brother to get rid of competition could possibly be ethical. “I would be, if Harry could send my girlfriends off to gaol and did.”

“Harriet Watson would abuse the power as a punitive measure against your perceived failures,” Mycroft said. This was true; she’d never liked his decision to join the army, thought he was abandoning her and Mum. John’s lips tightened at the reminder - so much strife between them, and how dare Mycroft prod into Harry’s life? Exhaustive power-complex be damned, he barely talked to her on his blog, let alone privately. “I, however, am acting in Sherlock’s best interest. He has never learned how to care safely, and thinks his heart quite immune to damage because he doesn’t believe he has one.”

John was no deductive genius, but it didn’t take one to recognise the weary tone of an oft-delivered lecture; in a flash of intuition, he knew.

“Hang on,” he said, not at all surprised. “You’re the one who taught him that _caring is not an advantage_ bullshit, aren’t you?” Of course it would be, who else - John had assumed Sherlock had come to the conclusion himself, but Christ if he couldn’t see the scene already. A young Sherlock, toy in hand - a pirate sword, maybe, and rampant curls peeking out of a feathered hat - begging Brother Dear for attention, affection, to come play a game; and Mycroft looking down with a sneer and reminding the little boy that caring is not an advantage before disappearing into a study and closing the door. The playful, wild little boy closing off, and only hints of him in a rare bright smile ever showing up again, when someone else comes to call him brilliant and join in his play.

Mycroft looked offended. Good. “For his own good,” he said, rather defensively, and John felt fucking fantastic about catching Mycroft wrongfooted. “He flaunts his heart on his sleeve and his only measure of defence is telling people it just doesn’t exist, while waving it about under their noses.”

John rolled his eyes, brows knitting. “So instead you try and train him to act like a robot so that he’ll make people want to go after him. Well done, you,” he said. All thought of potentially siccing Mycroft on Victor had left his mind; this is just too ridiculous, too controlling, too fucked up in the way only Holmeses can quite manage. “Did it ever occur to you people learn best from experience? For God’s sake, we’re talking about a man who only stopped setting the kitchen on fire once monthly because the last time I stayed at my girlfriend’s for a week.” Worst week imaginable; Kristine - Krista? - had constantly been slipping sly little hints about how awful a flatmate Sherlock must be, because of course John had had to explain why he was singed a bit, and making comments about how the place would feel empty without him, and it could totally become a permanent thing… Great, fantastic, at least it was a positive attitude - if John hadn’t known they’d only been dating a week or two at that point.

At least there had been sex. One redeeming factor of the whole ordeal.

“Sometimes people just have to take their lumps from life,” John advised Mycroft, who’d neglected to make a crack about Sherlock’s possible pyromania in favour of examining John speculatively. It was almost physically painful to say the next bit, but he had to. “Victor Trevor is an arse, but Sherlock’s interested, just…let him experiment, that’s what he does, how he learns things.”

He glanced pointedly at the door handle; after thirty seconds of Mycroft’s consideration, the elder Holmes let out a tiny gust of a sigh and the car pulled over. John nodded wordless, insincere thanks and climbed out; he has been deposited back on Baker Street, of course he has. Where else would a Holmes ever put him but back in the war zone?

“John,” Mycroft said, not closing the door just yet. His lips were curled downwards ever so slightly. “Do keep in mind there are some experiments that can destroy their samples. I should very much like if Sherlock didn’t inadvertently…hurt himself with one of these, and I should be even happier if he found a better one.” His eyes narrowed, sweeping over John again.

The car was gone before John could wrap his mind around the fact that he had just received - at least, he thought he had received - a blessing from Mycroft bloody Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God fucking damn it's been a while I swear I didn't mean to do this sort of waiting thing. Like, honestly, I don't even know what happened. 
> 
> Anyway. Who else SOBBED LIKE A FUCKING BABY through Sign of Three? Fuck me sideways, that episode made me want to walk out into the polar vortex weather until I got the heart frostbitten out of me. Ugh, so much pain. Sherlock, my baby, my baby, he is not okay. His Last Vow is going to absolutely wreck me.
> 
> As ever, I own nothing. Mycroft is super creepy.


End file.
